


live through this and you won't look back

by ObscureReference



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Risen, Sick Character, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/pseuds/ObscureReference
Summary: The first thing Owain does with the body is stare at it until his eyes burn.It looks like a mannequin.It hadn’t looked like that at first. At first it had been stumbling, rasping, foaming at the mouth, clutching a trowel like a weapon, a creature that resembled a human but wasn’t—Owain breaths in. It feels like a bubble popping.





	live through this and you won't look back

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this fic opens up in present tense as a kind of stylistic flashback type sequence, but the rest of the fic is in past tense after it. At first that section was much shorter, but as it dragged on I felt the need for a kind of disclaimer more necessary, so don't be surprised with that happens. It's like a "how we got here" moment.
> 
> Morgan uses "they" pronouns in this fic, fyi. Hence the nonbinary character tag.
> 
> There is some violence, so be warned. It's tagged as canon-typical because the characters of Fire Emblem are at war and do discuss injuries and death, but it's more explicit here. It's not what I would personally call gory, but please consider your own limits and take care of yourself. This is essentially a modern Risen outbreak. 
> 
> There is also some vague gagging/throwing up near the end of this fic, so while not explicit, please be forewarned of that as well. 
> 
> There is exactly one (1) line in this fic that mentions characters from Fire Emblem: Fates. I originally had the idea for those two universes to be more crossed-over in this fic, but changed it so I could write just this little section here. That line was not removed, but you don't need to have any Fates knowledge to read this because it's pretty strictly in Awakening territory aside from that one line. 
> 
> Title taken from "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" by Stars. The whole song doesn't necessarily fit this fic, but that one stanza does.

The first thing Owain does with the body is stare at it until his eyes burn.

It looks like a mannequin.

It hadn’t looked like that at first. At first it had been stumbling, rasping, foaming at the mouth, clutching a trowel like a weapon, a creature that resembled a human but wasn’t—

Owain breaths in. It feels like a bubble popping.

The body doesn’t look like it had. Lying there in the grass, too pale for a person, too still. It looks like a mannequin. Or an enemy from one of Owain’s video games, and that’s the thought that makes him relax just a bit.

It’s easier if he thinks of it like a mannequin or video game enemy. Another goblin in the way of the hero’s journey.

Because if he thinks of it as anything else, he’s actually going to throw up and cry and maybe have a breakdown of some kind, so he doesn’t.

And that’s that.

He picks up the rock he’d dropped when his grip went slack—the rock that has a red stain on one side now, where there hadn’t been one before—and chucks it as far away as he can throw it. He doesn’t watch it fall.

The next thing he does is look both ways down the street to make sure the coast is clear, and then he sprints across the street to bang on Cynthia’s door until she lets him in. She’s shaken and wide-eyed and clutching little Morgan’s hand like nothing in the world could pry Morgan away from her.

When Owain ushers them back to his house—because Cynthia’s home is all pretty glass and clear windows while his at least has a solid front door—she doesn’t even trip once.

They grab some stuff from Cynthia’s house—their favorite snacks, some books, a few things their mother told them to keep just in case. Cynthia does most of the work while Morgan sits upstairs in Owain’s room, keeping watch from the window.

Morgan is ten. It’s better they don’t go out.

Normally Owain would be with Cynthia, helping her carry her things across the street, but he’s too busy dragging the monster’s body into the woods behind his house so nobody has to look at it anymore.

It’s hard work. He’s fourteen. The monster is big.

He dumps the creature barely on the other side of the bushes, too exhausted to drag it further or look at it any longer, and at the same moment he hears a rustle further in. He freezes.

The trees in his backyard are not exactly a forest, but they were not sparse by far. Anything could hide in the underbrush or among the bark. Another goblin, per say.

He stands there, frozen for what feels like forever, and when nothing more comes he runs back to Cynthia and they lock all the doors.

When they go back upstairs, Morgan tells them in a soft voice that the streets are empty, which is better than it crawling with strangers, but the emptiness bothers Owain anyway. Cynthia’s smile is shaky and Morgan is quiet, but they’re okay. They’re fine.

Owain wants to lighten the mood somehow, but he suddenly remembers that phones are a thing that exist. Cynthia and Morgan call their mom while Owain calls his.

His mom picks up, despite the fact she’s in the middle of her shift at the hospital. She’s talking before he can even say anything, telling him to stay inside because something’s wrong with some of the patients and they think it’s spreading through the city. She says she wanted to call earlier but things got so busy, she’s so sorry, he should be fine but where is he right now—

Cynthia and Morgan are at the house, he tells her. He says he saw the monsters outside already. He doesn’t tell her he killed it.

His mom goes silent for a long minute after that. Owain can feel every beat of his heart in his chest.

Quietly, he hears his mom say, “It shouldn’t spread that fast.” He doesn’t think he was mean to hear it. After another beat his mom says, “I love you so much.”

His throat is dry.

“Me too,” Owain says.

Then:

“Honey,” says his mom. “Owain, I can’t—They’ve quarantined the hospital. I can’t leave, and I don’t want you going anywhere either. But your father—”

Owain’s dad is up north for work, of course. He’s not in the city. Owain and his mom had been home alone for the past few days. He’s not seeing either of his parents anytime soon.

His mother sniffs into the phone, and Owain realizes that’s the sound of his mother crying. Sitting on the foot of the stairs so Cynthia won’t see, Owain wipes his own moist eyes and pretends he isn’t also tearing up.

Uncle Chrom is still in the city, presumably, but he works all the way across town. That had been why Owain’s parents had moved after they’d gotten married; they wanted to be closer to the hospital for his mom’s work, while Uncle Chrom and Aunt Emmeryn lived closer to the business and political side of town. That distance seems to be a million miles now.

If Owain’s mom is saying not to leave the house, everyone else is probably stuck too. He doesn’t know where Lucina is supposed to be today either. He hopes she’s safe.

“Aunt Maribelle is here too,” his mother says after a long moment of silence. “She was on shift, so she’s stuck here with me.”

For a moment Owain is happy his mother isn’t alone. Aunt Maribelle was practically his own mother in some ways too. Then he remembers. “What about Brady?”

“He’s supposed to be at home,” his mom says, even though “supposed to be” isn’t the same as “is.” “Owain, I don’t think you should leave the house right now. You should stay with Cynthia and Morgan and lock all the doors. Don’t go outside for anything.”

Brady is practically Owain’s brother. He lives only a few streets over. Owain has walked that distance hundreds of time. “But Brady—”

“I know. Aunt Maribelle and I talked about it. You should stay home.”

Owain says nothing. The phone is cold against his cheek.

His mother’s voice shakes. “Owain, will you promise?”

“Yeah,” he says, mouth tasting like acid. “I promise.”

Another sniff into the phone.

“You know I love you, right? So much.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Call me back anytime, okay? For anything. I’ll call you soon.”

“Okay.”

They hang up.

When he goes back upstairs, Cynthia and Morgan are both solemn faced and pale, Cynthia’s cellphone sitting between them on Owain’s bedspread. His mind is racing when they tell him Sumia can’t come either. He’s too distracted to pay attention when they say why.

His brain goes through everyone he knows and where they are. The closest people he trusts are Brady and Aunt Maribelle. He thinks Inigo said he was going to visit Gerome today, which means with any luck he’s out of the city and on Gerome’s farm with their parents. Gerome and Yarne live close enough together that they can probably combine forces if need be.

He texts them all at once.

_Inigo, if you’re with Gerome, stay there. If not, stay inside wherever you are. Gerome, tell your parents something bad is happening and go to Yarne’s. Yarne, tell your mom to look out for anything weird and unusual and don’t talk to strangers today._

Not that Yarne’s mother particularly likes talking to strangers, but sometimes his dad does. Owain sends the message as a group text.

Yarne’s parents are smart. Not that Inigo or Gerome’s weren’t, but Yarne’s mom is big and intimidating and she knows her land better than anyone else. They’ll be safer outside the city with her, Owain thinks. He hopes Inigo and Gerome’s parents are there too.

Gerome doesn’t respond immediately, which isn’t unusual. Yarne sends a bunch of question marks, and Inigo calls. Owain ignores them all.

He texts, _Can’t talk now. Ask Cynthia if you have questions. Seriously, stay inside and away from people._

He tries to think of the others. Severa, Kjelle, Laurent, Noire… Owain doesn’t remember where they are right now. They’re friends, but they’re not on top of each other all the time. He thinks Nah might even be out of the country on vacation right now. He can’t remember. He wishes he could. He wishes they were all together.

He tells Morgan and Cynthia what his mother said. They listen. When he’s finished, he hands Cynthia his cell phone.

“Here,” he says. “If anybody asks, tell them as much as we know.”

It’s Morgan who asks, “Why are you giving us your phone?”

Thinking about it makes Owain want to throw up, but it’s a necessity. He’s steeling himself for the worst. If he’s trying to hide out there, he doesn’t need it ringing and giving himself away. It’s already begun to buzz with endless texts from Inigo and at least one curious inquiry from Gerome. He needs to be stealthy, and if worst comes to worst, then—

Well, the phone might be better with Cynthia and Morgan after all.

“I’m going to get Brady,” he says. “So lock me out, and don’t open up again until I come back.”

He thinks maybe Cynthia will protest, but she just looks at Morgan and stares for a long time. Then she nods at Owain like she understands. She probably does.

Morgan nods too. They say, “Maybe it was just the one.”

Owain doesn’t think it was just the one. Not the way his mom sounded on the phone. But Cynthia perks up at the thought and he doesn’t want to be bearer of bad news, so he says, “Yeah, you might be right.”

He kind of wants to add something else, like how they were all heroes in training and they had prepared for this with their _Dungeons & Dragons_ sessions and books and movies and that there was currently nothing to worry about.

But Owain had just killed a not-person that looked a lot like a used-to-be-person, so he’s not feeling very heroic right now. So he doesn’t say any of that.

He starts to turn away, but Cynthia grabs his hand. She catches his eye, and they stare at each other.

Morgan reaches out and takes his and Cynthia’s hands too, so they’re all connected.

Cynthia says, “We’re the Justice Cabal. Nothing can defeat us.”

Owain smiles. Of course Cynthia can take the words right out of his mouth.

“Of course not,” he says.

“This isn’t so different from one of our campaigns,” Morgan adds. “This is a stealth mission with limited supplies and information. We’ve done those before. It’s not that different.”

No, not so different at all. Or so Owain tries to convince himself. He squeezes their hands and looks at their faces. He has no idea what they’re thinking, but he’s so grateful to have them as friends.

Before he goes, Owain logs into his email and ignores the unopened messages saying there are new updates in his roleplay forum as of this morning. He’d been so excited about starting the new campaign yesterday.

Today, he opens a new email and tells Leo and Niles that maybe they can’t visit this summer after all.

Then he gets up.

He walks to the front door. He steps outside. He hears the click of the lock as Cynthia shuts the door behind him.

Owain breathes in.

The street is clear.

It’s a long story, but that’s how Owain gets to where he is now, nauseously climbing the tree outside Brady’s window.

 

 

 

Owain carefully shimmied his way to the far end of the branch. As close to the end as he dared, anyway. The oak tree in Brady’s backyard had seemed so large and looming when they were children, but it didn’t hold Owain’s weight the same way it had when they were seven. He was too aware of the dip of the tree’s limbs every time he adjusted his footing, his heart pounding. He risked wiping his sweaty hand against his shirt. Brady’s window was so, so close.

The branch didn’t break when Owain leaned over and rapped his knuckles against Brady’s window, and he thanked whatever tree gods there were for that. Then he waited.

He hadn’t seen anybody on the way over. Owain had gotten to the end of the street before he realized how exposed he was, walking along the road like that. Then he’d climbed the nearest neighbor’s fence and crawled through backyards to get to Brady’s house. It was technically a shortcut—more of a straight line than following the road was, anyway—but climbing all those fences had added an extra twenty minutes to the route.

The backyards had been empty. There had been no sound of cars passing, no neighbors chatting outside. No dogs. Maybe everyone was inside hiding from the summer heat, but Owain doubted it. He didn’t like the silence of the streets.

He didn’t like how Brady didn’t open his bedroom window, either.

Maybe he was downstairs. Owain knocked again.

And he kept knocking. He knocked as his mother’s warning not to visit Brady rang through is head, as the silence of the street sat heavy on his shoulders, as—

Brady—pale faced and nose running—threw open the curtains and glared.

Scowling, he said something probably rude from behind the glass. Combined with the closed window and the thudding of Owain’s heart in his ears, it was too garbled to understand.

Owain gestured to the window. Brady opened it with minor fumbling.

“What in the world are you knockin’ for?” Brady groused as Owain pushed him aside and crawled into Brady’s room. “Don’t you know when a guy’s tryin’ to sleep? Make like that tree you climbed up and leave.”

Owain realized he was panting. He didn’t know why. Relief, maybe. He shook his head and glanced around, dimly registering Brady’s complaints. Nothing seemed strange. Brady looked normal too, if a little worse for wear.

“Brady,” Owain said as Brady wobbled over to his desk and took a gulp of water from a cup. “Are you… feeling alright?”

“What’re ya talkin’ about?” Brady took another gulp of water. “Don’t I look just peachy? Scram. I’m not up to hangin’ out today.”

Owain looked at Brady’s ruffled bedsheets. “Have you been asleep all day?”

Brady coughed.

“Not all day,” he grumbled. Then he admitted, “Maybe most of it. I woke up a little this morning, before Ma went to work. She told me to go back to sleep, so I did.” He sniffed. “Dumb body. What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Owain said.

Brady grunted, eyeing the door. “Maybe Ma left some soup or somethin’.”

He started shuffling towards the door. Owain grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” he said. “Has your mom called you at all?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s your phone?”

Brady, bleary eyed, gestured to the bedside table. Owain picked up the phone and examined the screen. Seven missed calls from _Ma_.

“Your mom’s been calling,” Owain said, handing the phone over.

“What? Aw, shoot.” Brady ran a hand through his short hair. “I must have slept though her calls. Ma must be throwin’ a fit by now. She was already fussin’ over my cold before she left this morning.”

A cold. Brady just had a cold. Maybe a fever at most.

Owain’s shoulders slumped. Brady was only sick. He’d just slept through the phone calls. That was what his mother and Aunt Maribelle had been so worried about. This whole time he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it had been nothing more than a miscommunication in the end. Nothing really bad had happened to Brady.

He noticed Brady’s finger hovering over the button to call his mother back. Owain grabbed his wrist.

“Wait,” he said.

Owain’s mind raced. Brady was a crybaby. He was sensitive. A kind-hearted guy. He needed to be told the truth, but Owain wasn’t even sure what the truth _was_ , other than something really weird was happening. Other than the fact Owain had killed a man earlier—

His stomach lurched. That hadn’t been a man. It had been a monster. But Brady cried over flowers and kittens and stubbing his toe and—

No, Owain didn’t need to mention that part at all.

How would Brady react to hearing the hospital was in quarantine? He’d worry, of course. Cry, probably, over his mother and the patients and feeling useless.

But Owain was here now, and Aunt Maribelle needed to know her son was okay, even if Owain was probably going to get in trouble for leaving the house behind his mother’s back.

“What?” Brady asked. “Ya got something to say?”

Owain let go of his wrist. Brady had been cold under his fingers, but that was normal. Plus, he was sick. Most importantly, Brady was fine.

He hadn’t even seen anybody outside. Maybe Owain was overthinking everything. Maybe that goblin he’d seen was nothing more than a fluke.

“Nothing,” Owain said as Brady narrowed his eyes at him. “Just… the hospital is in quarantine, just so you know.”

As soon as Owain said “quarantine,” Brady jumped so hard he nearly dropped his phone.

“What?” he snapped. “Quarantine? Why did you say anything earlier? Is Ma okay? What is it?”

Brady was rapid-fire with the questions. Owain held his hands up to placate him.

“I don’t know anything,” he said. “Except that your mom is fine. She’s on shift with my mom. I came here to check up on you, but she’d probably appreciate a call back.”

Brady was already calling. Owain took a step back. He turned away to shut the window, pretending not to listen when Aunt Maribelle picked up on the other end.

Aunt Maribelle lectured Brady for no less than two full minutes about sleeping through her calls. Brady kept trying to interrupt, but she shushed him. Owain had no doubt she would have lectured him for longer had she not been in a time crunch. She was still on the clock, after all.

She and Brady went back and forth for a good while. Owain couldn’t hear what Aunt Maribelle was saying, but he heard the way her voice rose when Brady mentioned Owain was there. Owain winced. He’d be getting a call from his mom soon enough.

Unless she called his phone when he wasn’t there, and Cynthia answered the phone instead. That’d be even worse. Oh, he was getting chewed out for sure. He regretted not keeping his phone on him now. He really had been overthinking everything.

Brady asked his mom a bunch of panicked questions about why the hospital was on quarantine, and after she told him to put the phone on speaker mode, both of them listened as Aunt Maribelle, sounding tired but fine, listed off symptoms.

“Whilst unresponsive to attempts to communicate,” she continued. “patients exhibit increased signs of aggression. If not properly secured, patients attempt to assault staff and other patients alike with whatever they can grab. Other symptoms include pale skin, labored breathing, low body temperature, etcetera. Aggression is the main symptom. Until we can figure out the source of this aggression, said patients have been sedated.”

She broke her doctor voice to chew both boys out directly. “So don’t either of you two go talking to strangers, alright? Especially you, Owain. Brady’s smart enough to do what he’s told, but let it be known that I _will_ be telling your mother about your disobedience as soon as I get the chance.”

Owain knew this was just Aunt Maribelle’s way of showing she cared, but his throat still felt bone dry when he said, “Don’t worry about me. I won’t be approaching any strangers anytime soon.”

His heart clenched. It had been nearly an hour, but he could still see that monster in his mind’s eye, scrabbling at Cynthia’s front door. It had left a rusty smear on the glass with its dirty fingers. He could still hear Cynthia’s voice on the other end of the phone, breathing panicked, because the glass was shuddering awfully every time the “man” pressed himself against the door and Morgan was clutching at her arm and _“Owain, what if he gets in?”_

She’d had a bat and no desire to hurt anybody. She’d had Morgan, who was depending on her. She’d had Owain, who had no desire and no bat.

Cynthia had already called the police. The line had been busy, so then she’d called Owain, the only other person in the world who was close enough to help them. Owain, perched at his bedroom window, could hear the hiccup in her voice every time the “man” pressed himself again the door. His stomach had felt like lead.

She had handed the phone to Morgan for a split second to double check that the back door was locked. In that moment, too quiet for Cynthia to hear, Morgan had whispered, _“I don’t think that’s a person.”_

So Owain had gone outside, despite Cynthia begging him not go as soon as she’d gotten back on the line. He’d gone outside and yelled at the coward harassing his friend to turn around and face him directly.

The monster had turned, and Owain had frozen when he saw its face. Red, rusty red, smeared all over its mouth, its hands, the trowel—

Owain blinked. Hard.

Brady shot Owain an unreadable look, but Owain ignored it.

Aunt Maribelle must have heard something in his voice, because she sounded softer when she said, “Thank you for checking on Brady. I should have known he was just asleep.”

There was a sound like somebody sniffing. Owain couldn’t remember ever seeing Aunt Maribelle cry before. Her voice was strong when she continued, “I should have known you’d directly disobey your mother to check on him, though.”

“I’m taking Brady back to my house,” Owain announced.

Brady looked just as surprised as his mother sounded when they both said, _“What?”_

“Cynthia and Morgan are waiting for us!” he protested, sounding much younger than he wished he did.

“Your mother told you not to leave the house,” Aunt Maribelle said. “and now you want to walk through the streets _again_ and take Brady, who already has a fever, out into the summer heat?”

Brady scowled. “You make it sound like I’m pathetic, Ma. I can go on a walk.”

“You need _rest_.”

“Please,” Owain said. “It’s for a good cause!”

He had to reassure Aunt Maribelle twenty times that he had seen nobody on his way over and that he wouldn’t be asking if Cynthia and Morgan weren’t waiting for him at home before she relented.

Eventually, Aunt Maribelle sighed.

“I wouldn’t be allowing this if your mother weren’t too busy to come to the phone herself,” she said. “Besides, I can’t stay on the phone forever.”

“So we have your permission?” Owain asked. Brady still didn’t look too happy about the prospect of walking several blocks, but he didn’t say anything.

“We still don’t know how this is spreading, so you boys need to wash up every chance you get,” Aunt Maribelle said lieu of a straight answer. “Boil the water when you get back to the house. Normally I’d be against crowds in times of quarantine, but you kids should be fine. Just make sure Brady doesn’t overexert himself.” To Brady, she added, “Take your medicine on time, dear. I don’t want to hear that you passed out from exhaustion again. I expect you two to look after one another.”

“ _Ma_ ,” Brady said, looking abashed. “That was _once_. When I was six.”

“Once is too much,” she replied. “I have to go. I love you, Brady.”

Brady scrunched up his nose, but he didn’t hesitate to say, “I love you too, Ma.”

There was a beat before Aunt Maribelle hung up in which Owain expected her to say something else, but she didn’t. The call ended.

“So,” Brady said after a moment. “This is real serious, huh?”

Owain shrugged. “What makes you say that?”

“She didn’t try to correct my grammar even once.”

They both looked at the phone, at the _Call Ended_ sign blinking up at them. The conversation seemed too short.

Brady sniffed. His eyes looked shiny.

Owain sighed, then regretted it due to the sour look Brady tossed his way. He’d been surprised that Brady hadn’t cried yet, but… Hell, he’d done way better than Owain had expected already. Owain couldn’t blame him.

He slapped Brady on the back and plastered a smile on his face. “Cheer up, friend! Think of this as an impromptu sleepover.”

“E-Easy for you to say,” Brady said, his voice thick. Several fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “Ma and Aunt Lissa are stuck in the hospital while some dumb disease is making people _hurt_ each other.” He scrubbed at his cheeks. “I forgot to ask if both of them were even okay. And now here I am crying about it like a big loser.”

As if suddenly remembering where he was, he scowled at Owain, red-faced and lower lip wobbling.

“Didn’t your ma ever tell you not to stare?” he snapped. Coming from Brady, it didn’t sound nearly as mean as he probably hoped it did.

Owain placed his hands on his hips and tried to look confident.

“Text Cynthia and tell her we’re coming back, would you?” He puffed out his chest. He switched to his “acting” voice, the kind he usually used when he was in the middle of a campaign. “Meanwhile, I’ll explore the depths of your pantries for some healing ichor. Mayhaps I shall stumble upon a glorious bounty! Some Soup of the Robust! Or, even better.” He struck a pose and caught Brady’s eye. “Nyquil.”

Brady rolled his eyes and shuffled over to the bed. He grabbed a tissue on the way and blew his nose into it rather loudly. “Yeah, yeah, you’re getting in character, whatever. I’ll call her.”

Owain paused in the doorway.

“And, uh.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You’ll probably want to pack some of your other medication too.”

Brady wiped his nose with another tissue. “What, you think I’ll be stuck at your house for that long?”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” To reassure him, Owain added, “Like I said, it’s an extended sleepover. You, me, Cynthia, and Morgan are gonna have a blast.”

Brady snorted and tossed the tissue away. “Guess this mean’s I’m missing my PT session tomorrow.”

Oh, yeah, Owain remembered. Tomorrow would be Friday.

Sometime earlier in the year, Brady’s spine had apparently begun to curve unnaturally because of the way he slouched, and Aunt Maribelle had been forcing Brady to go to physical therapy sessions about it ever since. It wasn’t very obvious yet, but when Owain looked really hard, he could see the hump that had begun to develop in Brady’s upper back. Aunt Maribelle and Owain’s mom both said it would only get worse if Brady didn’t strengthen his muscles and learn to stand better.

Neither Brady nor Aunt Maribelle were very happy about the physical therapy, both for different reasons. Owain had overheard one or two of the fights Brady and his mother had had about it. Those usually ended in tears, mostly on Brady’s part. It wasn’t pretty.

“Consider this,” Owain said. “If you miss your session, Cynthia and I can help you stretch your back out instead!”

Brady shuddered. Owain cackled as he hopped downstairs.

There wasn’t any soup sitting in a pot on the stove, of course. Aunt Maribelle would never leave the stove on for hours with no one to watch it. She also wasn’t the resident cook of the house, so Owain wasn’t surprised when he looked inside the fridge and found a small pot and read the attached note.

_Make sure to eat up! —Dad_

Brady’s dad worked in a research facility with Inigo’s dad and Laurent’s mom somewhere across town. They’d studied different topics on and off over the years, but Owain couldn’t remember what they were researching now. For all he knew, they were researching this new virus or disease or whatever it was.

Owain shook his head. That wasn’t likely at all. Diseases were interesting, but aside from Mom and Aunt Maribelle, those weren’t their parent’s focus. Besides, things weren’t so bad that a research team that primarily studied—

Well, they studied a lot of things. Owain was pretty sure Inigo’s dad liked looking at skeletons and creepy things in jars while Laurent’s mom researched a bunch of stuff that went over Owain’s head. They hadn’t suddenly dropped everything to study some weird sickness that was spreading through town. This wouldn’t last long anyway. He was overthinking things again.

He ignored the tremors in his hands and heated up the soup. He spilled a bit of water while pouring a fresh glass for Brady. The shaking had stopped by the time he climbed back upstairs, at least, and found Brady had nearly finished packing. Brady had shoved some spare clothes and other things in a backpack. Owain grabbed Brady’s medicine from the bathroom cabinet and threw that in there as well.

Brady had already called Cynthia, but Owain passed the time by texting her via Brady’s phone while Brady ate the soup.

_Cynthia: Everything’s clear here! Nothing has crossed the paths of Eagle Eye Morgan, nor Hawk Eared Cynthia! :DDDD_

_You: Nor did I spot any adversaries whilst traversing to Cleric Brady’s abode. I believe we are well out of enemy territory by now._

_Cynthia: Yessssss!!!!_

There was a string of celebratory emojis attached.

_Cynthia: We’re waiting on you, so get back soon! Morgan said they wanted to play Monopoly or something when you get back._

_Cynthia: I keep calling my dad, but he’s not picking up. Mom is super busy too._

Before Owain could respond, Brady’s phone buzzed again.

_Cynthia: Dad is probably with Uncle Chrom tho, so I’m sure he’s fine!!! Mom said she’d be busy, so I’m not surprised either. Between the four of us, we’ll be fine too!_

It almost seemed like she was looking for reassurance, so Owain texted: _Yeah, of course! Our parents are safe. Between your warrior mother and cunning father, as well as Brady’s and I’s brilliant healer mothers, nothing can fell them._

_You: They’re just busy. They’d be here if they could be. Brady and I will be back soon._

Owain kicked his feet back and forth as he waited for Cynthia to respond. Brady slurped down the last of the soup.

“You done draining my battery or what?” he asked.

The phone buzzed. Owain looked at it.

_Cynthia: Yeah!!!!!!_

He didn’t think Cynthia had said anything to Brady about the thing they’d seen earlier. The thing Owain had fought. The memory of it felt sharp but also somehow distant. Like a nightmare Owain couldn’t shake, but a nightmare nonetheless.

He realized he was gripping Brady’s phone too tightly and forced himself to relax.

Cynthia’s spirits seemed to have significantly brightened, at least. Owain told himself to do the same.

“Yeah, just about,” he said, handing the phone back to Brady. They’d been at Aunt Maribelle’s house long enough. “You ready?”

Brady wiped his mouth with his sleeve and nodded.

 

 

 

Brady had tried calling and texting his dad, to no avail. He’d scrawled a note on the fridge explaining where he was in case his dad came home before they talked to one another.

“He probably dropped his phone ‘cause he had his nose in a book again,” Brady had grumbled in explanation, his chicken-scratch handwriting nothing at all like Aunt Maribelle’s swirling penmanship. “I ain’t too worried about it.”

Not yet, Owain thought. Then he mentally chastised himself for thinking that.

Brady had no reason to worry yet. Owain tried telling himself the same. As much as he tried to pretend otherwise, his brief bursts of positivity were being slowly consumed by the gnawing apprehension in his gut. The heavy summer heat and the beads of sweat forming at his hairline were bringing back the memory of that Thing all too clearly.

Owain’s stomach churned. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten.

“You sick too?” Brady asked, already a stepping off the porch.

Owain pulled the straps of Brady’s backpack a little tighter. They’d fought over who would carry the bag until Owain’s insistence won out. It was a good thing too; Brady had visibly wilted when he stepped outside his airconditioned home. There was no way the heat was making his fever any more comfortable. To his credit, Brady was keeping his complaints to himself. Even so, Owain wasn’t sure how far Brady could make it with the backpack, though it wasn’t particularly heavy.

“Nah,” Owain said easily, following Brady to the sidewalk. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Morgan wants to play Monopoly when we get back.”

“ _Monopoly_?” Brady grimaced. “That game lasts _forever_. Thought the kid would wanna play _Clue_ or somethin’ anyway.”

The street was still empty. They were approaching the corner.

Owain shrugged.  “Maybe we’ll play that too.”

They turned the corner.

One street down. At least four more to go.

“Maybe later,” Brady sounding a little distracted. “The only thing I wanna do is take a nap.”

“You can do that too,” Owain said. He kept waiting for some monster to pop out of the shadows. None did.

They fell quiet. Brady, in his sickness, didn’t seem to notice Owain’s uncharacteristic silence. Judging from his wobbly steps and red face, he probably wasn’t feeling very well. Owain sympathized; he wouldn’t be happy until they got back to his house. He didn’t feel comfortable making too much noise until then.

Brady had long legs and a few inches in height on Owain, but Owain was somehow the faster walker. He kept having to slow himself down so he wouldn’t get too far ahead of Brady, fiddling with the backpack strap and biting his cheek to keep from saying anything. If he did, Brady would only push himself harder, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

Besides, there technically wasn’t a reason to rush, even if Owain felt like they should.

Owain’s eyes darted up and down the street.

There was no one.

 

 

 

When they were turning the corner onto the final street, Owain pushed Brady into the bushes.

His momentum carried him along in the fall; they both went tumbling to the ground. Owain let loose a grunt of pain as he hit the grass.

They didn’t fall _into_ the bushes, of course. They landed just behind the bush, and the tip of a branch cut Owain’s arm on the way down. But they weren’t inside the bushes. Just uncomfortably close.

He’d landed on top of Brady, and Brady was immediately swatting Owain away.

“Get off of me!” Brady said, much too loudly. His face was very red, his breaths heavy. “What in the world are—”

Owain had rolled off of him, but as Brady’s voice rose, he jumped back on top of his friend, covering Brady’s mouth with his hand.

 _“Shh,”_ Owain hissed. “ _Look._ Down the street.”

Scowling, Brady rolled onto his stomach and peered around the bush. Owain settled for looking through the tiny gaps between the branches and stayed where he was. He felt Brady tense, and that was when he knew Brady saw what he did as well.

There was a figure standing a few yards down the street. One Owain didn’t recognize.

He had almost thought it a girl at first, given the yellow tank top and long hair piled in a high ponytail. He nearly mistook it for a girl only a few years older than them. Sixteen or seventeen at most.

But no. The jerky way it moved, the way her fingers curled and uncurled into a fist with no particular rhyme or reason...

Owain could feel the heat radiating from the asphalt. The air was so oppressively _hot_. He squinted.

Despite standing in the middle of the road, her feet were bare. If there was any pain, she didn’t seem to notice.

 _It_ didn’t seem to notice.

A dim part of Owain’s brain, with a voice that sounded too much like his mother, whispered that that was a _person_ , they were just sick. They needed help.

A louder, more insistent, part of him flashed back to the monster from earlier. To the blood on its mouth. To the unidentifiable red and brown mush that had clung to the trowel in chunks.

Morgan’s shaky whisper replayed in his ear.

_“I don’t think that’s a person.”_

No, that wasn’t a girl at all.

“Aw, shoot,” Brady said lowly. The fight had gone out of him. His head dipped so low his chin was nearly in the dirt. “What’s she doin’ out there? Is she sick? I wanna ask if she needs help or somethin’, but…”

 _But Aunt Maribelle said not to and she’s a stranger,_ Owain finished. Plus the infected got aggressive, like Aunt Maribelle said. While Brady might have known that, he didn’t need to _know_ that. Yet.

“Yeah,” he whispered. He was hiding behind the bushes, but he was also standing in his side yard, staring at a monster that, with its strings cut, now looked like a mannequin. “Let’s just stay here.”

Brady didn’t look happy, but that might have been the fact he’d just trekked several blocks in the thick summer heat with a fever. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s wait for a second. I need a break anyway.”

So they laid there, waiting. Brady and Owain moved to crouch behind the bushes instead of laying down so their legs wouldn’t be seen sticking out if anyone got too close. Owain’s shirt was clung to him with sweat.

Every breath Owain took made the items inside Brady’s backpack audibly shift. It didn’t sit too heavily on his back, but the clink of medication against hard plastic sounded much too loud to his ears. He tried to take shallower breaths.

Anyone looking at them from the side would spot them immediately, but they were hidden from direct sight, at least, which was all Owain was worried about for the moment. The monster wasn’t even looking in their direction, which was probably why they’d gone undetected when Owain had pushed Brady over, despite the noise. They were fine. They were safe.

It stood in the middle of the road for too long. For thirty seconds, really, but it felt too long to Owain. Brady shifted uncomfortably. Then the monster moved, and Owain was relieved for only a split second before he realized it had turned to shamble in _their_ direction.

His breath caught. Suddenly he was seeing double.

There was a gap in the leaves Owain could see relatively well through, but when he blinked, the leaves disappeared, and then it was just him and that horrific face and that disgusting trowel all over again.

He tried to focus on the here, the now.

Fifteen feet. It was closing in.

Owain curled his left fingers into a fist and felt the phantom weight of a rock in his hand. His hand shook.

Ten feet.

He closed his eyes. Suddenly the weight on his back wasn’t Brady’s backpack at all. It was a body instead, heavy and writhing, its teeth snapping in his ear. Owain’s breath caught in his throat; he couldn’t scream.

No.

He opened his eyes, feeling suddenly cold despite the heat. No, he couldn’t scream because the monster was in front of him, not on top of him, and he couldn’t be caught, wouldn’t let them be caught again—

Owain bit into his lip. Hard.

Brady grabbed Owain’s right hand and squeezed.

 _“Calm down,”_ he whispered. His gaze scanned Owain’s face. His eyes were red.

Owain squeezed back. He forced himself to take the tiniest breath he could manage and prayed the thing didn’t hear.

It didn’t. Only a few scant feet away from them, the monster stopped. Waiting, just like them.

Then it turned, looking at though it were going to shuffle away in the opposite direction. Owain’s heart skipped a beat. The world came into focus again.

Two very unlucky things happened at once.

The first was that Brady’s phone rang.

Both of them jumped. Brady’s phone was in his backpack, but even under the cloth, it was _loud_. Owain shrugged the backpack off in an instant, already fumbling for the right pocket to silence the phone. Even as he scrambled, he knew it was pointless. The monster had already turned its head to stare at the bushes, their hiding place.

Secondly, Brady sneezed.

It was a loud sneeze. Louder than the phone’s ringing, even. And if the phone hadn’t given them away before, Brady’s sneezing sure did.

The monster did a full body turn to face them. It didn’t matter if it could see them or not; Owain knew that _it_ knew where they were.

For a moment nobody moved.

Beside him, Brady shook.

“Aw, sh—”

The monster lunged.

For a moment Owain couldn’t remember anything his father had taught him. So many afternoons had been spent in the living room or gym or the backyard, Owain’s father showing him all the ways to get out of a headlock or kick an opponent just the right way to stun them.

“I want you to be able to defend yourself,” his father had said. “for when I can’t be there.”

Suddenly Owain couldn’t remember any of that. He was only full of adrenaline and panic and fear.

Acting on pure instinct, he shoved the backpack above his head, just in time to catch the monster making a dive for them through the bushes. The monster didn’t bother avoiding the brush. It didn’t bother moving around the shrubs; it tried to lunge at them _through_ the greenery, and the bushes swallowed its hips whole. Owain used the backpack as a barrier and shoved it away.

There was a split second where they were close enough to look at each other eye to eye.

This close, it didn’t look like a person at all. He’d never mistake those eyes for anything human.

Owain shoved. Brady swore. He caught its forehead with his elbow as they dove out of the way.

Brady ran out into the street. Owain took a page out of Brady’s accidental book and smashed his own elbow into the monster’s nose before it could detangle itself from the bushes. A shockwave ran up his arm with the hit, catching him off guard. It was worth it, however, for the way the monster rasped something awful at him, momentarily too stunned to move.

Owain stumbled out of its reach just before it decided to claw at him. It tried to push itself out of the bushes only for its hands to sink into the leaves, helpless.

Sparing no time to think, Owain darted around the side of the bush and tackled the monster full-force. It was a lot like tackling Brady. The monster, under the guise of a twig-thin girl, went down underneath him the same way.

Owain didn’t allow either of them time to catch their breath. He landed on its chest and punched down blindly, as hard as he could, hoping the hit combined with the fall would give him the upper hand.

If the monster was stunned, it didn’t last long. Its spindly fingers clutched at his hips, but he squirmed out of its grasp and scrambled to his feet. The monster tried to rise as well, but not fast enough. Owain kicked it square in the mouth. There was a sickening crunch under his shoe.

The monster growled like some kind of animal. Owain told himself it was further proof of its inhumanity.

“Go, go, go!” Owain shouted. How long had he been shouting? “Brady, go ahead of me! Get to my house!”

Somewhere just out of Owain’s line of sight, Brady, who was ninety-five pounds soaking wet and heavily asthmatic, hesitated.

His voice trembled. “What are you—”

_“Just go!”_

Owain didn’t recognized his own voice. It was only when he realized that sound couldn’t have come from anyone else that he realized it had come from him at all.

Thankfully none of that mattered, because Brady listened. Owain didn’t turn to watch him leave—couldn’t take his eyes off the monster that was picking itself off the ground even if he wanted to—but he heard the sound of Brady’s uneven retreating footsteps.

Good.

The monster’s face was a wet, ugly mess, blood streaming from its nose. It made an awful, awful sound when its mouth opened. It was hard for Owain’s brain to reconcile the fact he had been the one to make its face that way.

His brain was having trouble doing a lot of things, actually, so Owain made it easier on himself by shutting it off. 

He moved to kick the monster again. Flat on its back, he thought he had the advantage, but he found he was wrong when the monster’s hand caught his ankle mid-kick and _tugged_. Owain fell.

The knock of the back of his skull against the hard ground left him dizzy. Owain gasped, his head spinning. But its fingers were still stuck around his ankle like a shackle. Somewhere down by his feet, the monster shifted, and Owain felt fingers climbing up his calf, his knee—

Owain kicked. He kicked and kicked and kicked and kicked, his vision all but a blur. There was a weight on his legs and then there wasn’t, and Owain was running before his mind caught up with the rest of him.

Brady’s backpack was slung over his shoulder, somehow. He must have grabbed it, but Owain didn’t remember doing so. He didn’t even know if the monster was following. Owain could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He sped up anyway.

Brady wasn’t outside the house when Owain reached home, but the front door was open and Cynthia stood right outside, her bat at the ready. She lowered the bat as he approached.

“Owain.” Cynthia’s eyes were wide. Her words came out rapid fire. “Brady’s in the bathroom. He didn’t tell me anything. What happened? Why are you crying?”

Owain swiped at his cheeks. They were wet. He hadn’t even realized he was crying.

He felt grubby and gross. His knuckles throbbed.

There had been times when he and Cynthia had gone back and forth for hours, talking character design and monologues and practicing speeches for a school play, but now Owain’s words failed him. He checked over his shoulder one last time to make sure nothing had followed him.

There was no one. His stomach lurched.

Unable to stand being outside any longer, he shoved past Cynthia and raced to the nearest bathroom.

Brady was already leaning over the toilet, his shoulders shaking, so Owain heaved over the sink.

Eventually, they both stopped. Nothing had come out when Owain gotten sick, so he turned on the sink and splashed his face with water. The cold was like a shock to his system. When he looked up, he found Brady staring back at him, his forehead resting on his arm against the toilet seat.

“What the hell was _that_?” Brady said, his voice raw and every bit as awful as Owain felt. His eyes were even redder than they had been before.

Owain rubbed at his own swollen, itchy eyes. His hands felt dirty.

“I’ll get you some water,” he said.

Brady said his name, but Owain was already walking out of the bathroom. He didn’t have an answer for him, and Brady had begun to gag again, besides. He stepped out into the front hall.

Morgan was sitting on the stairs. There was a knife in their lap. They must have been sitting there when Owain ran in, but he hadn’t noticed.

They weren’t grinning, which was uncharacteristic of them, but Owain didn’t feel much like smiling either. His thoughts swam. Everything felt just a little fuzzier than it should have.

The front door was closed, but Cynthia stood guard anyway, looking more determined and grim than he had ever seen her. She clutched her bat like a lifeline. She didn’t say anything when he walked out, didn’t quite smile, but something about the way she held herself made him feel a bit better anyway. She looked ready for anything.

Morgan set the knife aside. They clasped their hands together in their lap.

“On a scale from one to ten,” Morgan said solemnly. “how much are they like mimics?”

Cynthia breathed in sharply, but she didn’t say anything. It took a moment for Owain to remember what that was.

A mimic. A monster the disguised itself as some object—a chest, a book, something inanimate—in hopes of lowering a person’s guard and slaying anyone who got too close.

The monsters outside weren’t the same. They were living, moving things, not a chest some hapless party member had been tricked in to opening.

The monsters outside weren’t the same at all. But they were close.

Owain thought about it. Aside from the sound of Brady throwing up behind him, the whole house had grown still.

“Seven,” he eventually said. That heartless face, those eyes—unmistakable. But from a distance, maybe…

Morgan nodded. They stood up. Owain had to remind himself that they were only ten.

Morgan was ten, but they had been running Owain and Cynthia’s tabletop campaigns for a year now. They’d come a long way since then. Young as they were, Owain trusted them.

“I can work with that,” Morgan said.

Cynthia’s gaze dragged between Morgan, Owain, and the window. She adjusted her grip on the bat and stood just a little straighter.

“Of course you can,” she said, sounding sure of herself. She looked at Owain. “You’ve had a long day, soldier. This is Pegasus Knight Cynthia, formally tagging you out.”

She nodded to herself, satisfied.

Owain had no idea what anyone else would have done in her shoes, but he was suddenly very grateful it was Cynthia and Morgan who lived across the street and not anyone else.

He smiled at them, strained. But a smile nonetheless.

Owain breathed in, then out. In, then out.

One problem at a time.

He went into the kitchen to get Brady a glass of water.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this fic opened with Owain RP-ing in the forum where he met Niles and Leo and became e-mail pen-pals with them. They're about to take down some dude who has been the rising forum villain for a while. He was very excited before his mom told him to lay low and lock all the doors for some reason.
> 
> I'm not sure this is something I'll ever continue because I don't do well with long, drawn-out works, but I like the idea of it and am open to discussion (and maybe little drabbles? We'll see). I hope you liked this too! I wish I had written Cynthia a bit more. I imagined her definitely using that bat to take out a Risen while Owain's back was turned or he was down, but that wasn't where this specific part of the AU took me. The bat is a substitute for the spear she'd normally use in canon. Please know she kicks major ass though. Besides Owain, I don't write these Awakening characters very often, so I hope I did an alright job with them.
> 
> Morgan, Cynthia, and Owain are all known for their cheeriness in canon, and while that shows through some here, I know they're not as bright and smiley as in Awakening. They're not quite as eccentric 24/7 as well. That's because they're younger here than in canon, so not all their habits have been developed yet, and the Risen attack has literally just started. They aren't used to this violence or this type of world yet. They're a lot more serious than they would normally be here for that reason. As they adjust/get older, I'm pretty sure their Awakening personalities shine through a lot more (both to signify change with age and as coping mechanisms). 
> 
> Lol, what a fic to post this time of year. Hopefully it makes up for the lack of horror I failed to post back in October. ;D Happy Holidays!
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment below or hit me up on my [tumblr!](http://someobscurereference.tumblr.com/)


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